


Thy Will Be Done

by Nina36



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, UST, bisexual Marcus Keane, past (can't stress it enough) Marcus/Mouse, wip (but I'm writing like crazy)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 01:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12901368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: It starts on an Island, it seems fair that it should end on one. Twenty years later. Or - let's see how much can I write before being completely slatered next week:)serious summary: past and present collide as Marcus, Tomas and Mouse all fight the same war: good vs evil.





	Thy Will Be Done

**Author's Note:**

> Premise: I ship Tomas/Marcus with the burning intensity of a thousand suns, I so did not expect to ship them, but how can you not, truly? I mostly fell in love with Marcus Keane and I’m interested in his backstory. I will not get into the argument whether there has been retconning or not. Ben Daniels asked to give him the benefit of the doubt and I’m doing just that. I do believe Marcus’ sexuality is fluid and yet not fully addressed; therefore, his backstory with Mouse is very interesting to me. In my opinion, it doesn’t deny the man we have seen in the first season and the second. It doesn’t deny that he has strong feelings for his “little cub”, and for Peter. Marcus is a complex character, and I’m not surprised that things with him are not cut and dried.  
>  That said; I will never, ever believe that Marcus left Mouse of his own will. Well, I do, actually, but in this story, things went a bit differently

**Present Day**

 

She has not thought about Marcus for a very long time. At first – well, who is she kidding? For a long time, after, he was the only thing she could think about. Anger, disappointment, betrayal, love – for _that_ was there too, and it had never felt wrong, or a sin, it never felt like something God would not approve of – and emptiness it was all there, festering inside of her.

Shame came later, it sharpened her, made her a tool of God, something that made her into the woman she is today. Shame is what demons use, and she likes the idea of turning the tables on them.

She still remembers the first time she saw Marcus: young, long-haired, he could be an arsehole one minute and the kindest, most generous and selfless man she had ever met a second later. She remembers how he poured everything he was into the Exorcisms, how he fought tooth and nail to save the souls the demons tried to claim.

She remembers how, once, looking at him, exhausted after two days of constant prayer, hoarse for he had shouted, whispered, commanded, compelled the demon to leave the body of a young woman, she had felt breathless for a moment. She remembers how she thought he was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen – not handsome in a typical way, but God shone through him and she could not stop looking at him.

She remembers feeling like she had been run over by a truck and dragged by it, when she woke up... _after,_ how she could not move a single muscle, how her chapped lips bled every time she tried to speak, how it took weeks for the bedsores to disappear and how the wounds (what the demon did to her while Marcus left, he abandoned her) on her body  itched as they scarred.

Eventually, and it took more time than she likes to admit, thoughts of Marcus faded, she became good at compartmentalizing so that demons could not sniff that weakness and exploit it.

Until Chicago.

A hole in the body that used to belong to Maria Walters is not even the tip of the iceberg of the things she has done to demons for the past couple of decades. Demons hate humanity, they are fallen angels whose sin was to loathe God’s creation, to want to take their place, to think they could question God.

 And well, the sentiment is mutual. She _hates_ demons. Once the soul is gone, annihilated whether by choice – which is something that repulses her beyond words – or after losing a battle, the meat suits are fair game for her.

Marcus broke her heart but he turned her into a good soldier of God. Or, perhaps, it is the way God chose her. Her Holy Father doesn’t speak to her, she can only guess and do what she has been chosen for. And she is good at it.

She wonders whether Marcus has forgotten about her, whether he has rationalized the fact that he abandoned her when she needed him the most so that demons cannot use that weakness against him. She knows she has.

Or, perhaps, he has never cared about her, not really, not the way she cared for him – he was her everything, she was just – what? A friend? Something more? A platonic possible shag?

To this day she still has no clue about what she was for him.

It doesn’t really matter: demons are killing or recruiting exorcists, the Vatican is compromised; good, holy women like Sister Dolores are dead and whether she likes it or not, Marcus is a bloody legend among them.

Excommunicated or not he has been exorcising demons since he was a child, it’s popular consensus that he is the best living Catholic exorcist. She needs his help. They all do.

They are fighting a war, and he is good at standing at the door and pushing back the darkness.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He knows he is dreaming because one small mercy God has afforded him is that he never remembers his dreams. Oh, he is aware that he has them and that they are pretty intense, Tomas has obliquely referenced to them, but as long as he doesn’t remember them, he couldn’t give half a toss about what his subconscious comes up with at nights.

 He knows he is dreaming because he is outside Mouse’s room gasping for breath, his heart thudding in his chest and he feels – actually, truly _feels_ – tears welling up in his eyes.

He knows he is dreaming because he has long hair, he can feel it tickling his neck, and he doesn’t have a Quasi-almost constant pain in his back, he is still God’s vessel, he is young, and he has fallen in love for the first time.

He is more scared than he has ever been. He knows he is dreaming because his mum is in there too, looking at him, blood on her face and on her second-hand clothes. He can feel her contempt and her accusation.

As if on cue she speaks, her voice is thick and sad, exactly like he remembers it, like Pazuzu will use it to try and fuck with his mind almost twenty years later.

“You couldn’t save me.” His mum says, hard, unforgiving, like she always is in his mind, “you can’t save her. You is a failure, son.”

It’s a dream, he knows that, and he is so used to demons using his mum to try and hurt him that it barely registers.

And yet – Mouse is in that room,  a demon is claiming her soul and he knows, God, he knows what will happen next. He doesn’t want to relive it, he doesn’t want to go through it again. It broke his heart the first time, made him give up on having a Parish and a place he could call home for good.

He bloody well knows what happened in reality, he remembers the young priest who dragged him outside Mouse’s room, he remembers how he was reminded about the vows he took and how in one swoop he almost cocked up one and he had to remember the others.

He knows that. He remembers that, and yet he still gets into the room, ignoring his mum’s litany of how much he is a failure, poison, a bad seed that should have been flushed out for everyone’s good, it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before – or _after_ or told himself a million of times at one point or another since he was seven, and he gets into the room.

Oh. Yes, it’s _definitely_ a dream: he is into Casey Rance’s room, now, the night he almost rescued her, before her sister called the cops. Mouse is there too because it’s a dream, he remembers that night, he was honestly surprised that Pazuzu could not even sniff a whiff of her. But then again, he wasn’t so bloody raw and confused at the time. Loneliness had been an effective defence for him.

Mouse is wearing white clothes. Why not? It’s a dream, it’s not truly happening, she might wear polka dots for all he cares. She’s humming a Patti Smith song under her breath, her voice is distorted, but she’s still there. Casey Rance is trashing on the mattress and it’s dream, he knows it is and he can’t do a damn thing to stop it, to wake up, to tear the fabric of his subconscious apart.

Casey smiles: black gums and rotten teeth and she says exactly what he’d been thinking: “Getting other people’s demons out is far easier than dealing with your own, Man of God.”

It is, and he has never made a mystery of it, at least with himself.

“Bet you were all too eager to obey orders that time,” Casey says gesturing at Mouse.

“Sod off.” He says, but it’s like talking underwater, and part of him, the one who’s awake and trapped into that web of past and recent bollockings thanks God for granting him not to remember his dreams usually; if they’re always like that he would have gone crazy ages ago.

“It was the right choice, you know?” Tomas’ voice says behind him.

Right, _of course_. Tomas Ortega is in his dream. His subconscious is not being subtle.

“Look at me,” Tomas says, “You are destroying me – but you are sparing _Peter_. And we both know what you feel for him and for me!”

He shakes his head. No. That is not true. Tomas is following his path, he is trying to protect him, it’s not his fault if he’s so bloody stubborn and full of pride.

“Oh, yes,” Casey scoffs, “blame the apprentice who doesn’t truly get what’s really up against.”

“It’s so easy to be the James Bond of exorcists when you have nothing to lose. But the moment you care – wonder what’s really happening right now, in Andy’s room” It’s Mouse who speaks. Not the demon who made her spread her leg in that bed, who taunted and mocked him. It’s her, and he so desperately wants to wake up that angry tears are welling up his eyes, now.

Mouse gets closer and he wonders, for a moment, out of nowhere, whether her eyes are still so bright, whether she still sings like an angel – has the demonic possession he could _not_ free her from (not by will. At the time, he still obeyed the Church), changed her?

“Dance with me, Marcus. You told me you would dance with me all night.” She breathes.

It’s a dream, and Marcus Keane is aware of that. Yet, he closes his eyes and he doesn’t know or care whether he’s screaming on that couch in Andy’s house, but in the dream, in that nowhere land, when Mouse touches him he wants to.

“I’m sorry I failed you.” Mouse whispers against his lips.

“Are you sorry you abandoned me? I needed you and you gave up on me.”

When her nails dig into his skin, he _does_ scream.

He is afraid.

 

* * *

 

 

**Isle of Iona, UK – 1999**

 

It was sister Grace who called Father Robert. She must have seen or heard something or, perhaps, it was the fact that he fled Mouse’s room or the demon inside of her had a little chat with her, but the fact is that the nun gloated when he was dragged away from Mouse’s room and escorted into the office.

Father Robert doesn’t know him, he doesn’t know he might be young (he feels about a hundred years old, most days, truth be told), but he has been doing that job for twenty years. The old man doesn’t know or care that he has exorcised God knows how many demons (he knows _exactly_ how many, he has an album in his room, with pictures, newspapers clippings, notes, so that he won’t ever forget a face, a name, a moment) he has cast out.

All he sees is a young priest, who has failed to exorcise a demon because he is in love with the host. And he looks and sounds so sanctimonious as he reminds him that he took a vow of chastity, that it’s his fault if the demon’s seed is festering inside the young, inexperienced novice.

The old git doesn’t know that he has never touched Mouse, that the demon was right: he has not technically broken his vows. The old git only sees things in terms of black and white.

“She needs me!” He says, and he ignores the little voice in the back of his head that tells him that it’s the other way around, that he’s a parasite, sucking and destroying the life of people that gets too close to him. It doesn’t matter – all that matters is that he has to save Mouse.

“No, she doesn’t. She needs someone whose judgment isn’t clouded, and I am afraid you are not fit for the task.” Father Robert says. And he suspects the old man thinks he’s being kind, all things considered.

“I made a – “He starts.

“Father Marcus,” Father Robert says, interrupting him, his voice is kinder, now, which in his experience, preludes to something worse

“You are a good priest, but you are too emotionally involved, you are compromised.” The man says.

“I never touched her.” He says, and he suddenly feels twelve again, trying to explain to Sean that he broke Neil Burland’s nose in self-defence and not because he was a rotten apple destined to hurt people, to kill them like he did with his father.

The older priest sighs. “Brother, we both know that it is not the real issue here. Whilst I do believe you, the fact remains that your presence alone here is a liability. Do you love her?”

He swallows past his suddenly dry throat. Yes. God, yes! He does. She is – sunshine and warmth and light, she makes him feel young, innocent, pure.

Yes, he does love her. And – it’s his fault. He loved her and her soul is being ripped apart by a demon because of that.

“ _Qui tacet, consentire videtur_.” The man says.

In other moments, he would scoff at the use of Latin, because he grew up with people like those – arseholes who spoke Latin and bought boys for five quids and shoved them into rooms with demons.

But he is also right: silence gives consent. He has not denied the man’s words because they are true and Mouse deserves more than lies to save his own hide. She deserves to be saved because he was stupid, he was blinded by pride, too glad to hear the admiration in her voice and see it in her eyes to spare her.

Well, he can, now, can’t he? He can make sure she is saved.

“Can – can you save her?” He asks because he doesn’t give a toss about what happens to him at that point, he’s thirty-three but he feels old, exhausted – but she is young, beautiful, pure, she _has_ to be saved.

“I can.” The man says – and he’s sure he can. He doesn’t know Mouse, he hasn’t walked with her on the in the garden, shivering for the cold, but with such a warmth and light enveloping him that he barely noticed the biting cold. He hasn’t tasted her tea, perfect, just the way he likes it. She hasn’t cut his hair. He doesn’t know that he calls her mouse because she’s silent and quiet. He doesn’t know that for a moment, just one moment, he thought about turning his back to his mission to just to be with her, like man and wife.

And he cannot even know, ever, about the fact that he is confused, he is heartbroken, he is so very afraid. Father Robert can save Mouse and that is the only thing that matters.

“Can I stay until she’s recovered? She will not know I am here.” He says.

“But the demon will, and it will use it against your _friend_.” Father Robert says, empathising the last word. Oh, it was all turn a blind eye when in seminary and it was between blokes, and even later, after being ordained – but, apparently, rules apply when it suits them.

“I need to know – “He starts, again. And Father Robert tilts his hand up interrupting him.

“You need to pack your bags, go to Rome – you are a good exorcist, Father Marcus, this experience will make you an even better one.” Father Robert says and he knows it is not up to debate, especially when the man adds, “You already came very close to break one vow, shall I remind you about the others?”

Obedience. Rome doesn’t like insubordination. He will have to remember that, for future reference.

“I shall let you know, however, if and when she is cured. But for her own good, you need to leave the Isle, leave her to my care.” He says.

 _Sod off and go be the Church’s gun._ The message is loud and clear. The punishment fits the crime.

He fell in love with a woman and he’s being sent away, but she is the one whose immortal soul is at stake.

He is a quick study. Has always been.

He nods his head and leaves the room. He can’t even get close to Mouse’s, he’s escorted back to his room, the crucifix above his bed is a beacon.

The Lord has tested him – has shown him once more His plan for him, and it doesn’t involve love, warmth, sunshine and light. No, his job is to push the darkness back, to be in bleak rooms and smell death and corruption and evil, alone. His job is to have demons take every good thing in his life and twist it until there is nothing left but charred remains.

“Please, don’t punish her for this. It’s my fault. Mine alone.” He whispers, on his knees. On good days he can feel His presence, His grace flowing through him, he doesn’t hear His voice or see His face, but he knows he’s been heard.

He isn’t sure, that time – and that’s the scariest thing he has ever felt. Not feeling God would be like dying a thousand times over. He would be lost without Him.

He packs his bags and leaves for Rome, the demon inside Mouse smirks and groans with pleasure, but Marcus Keane doesn’t get to see that.

 

* * *

 

 

**Present Day**

In hindsight, he knows now that leaving Tomas alone with Andy was a mistake. Tomas is good at what he does, but he is still so green and he still doesn’t get that being an exorcist is not like being a priest. There is no respite, no chance to lower one’s guard.

Placing blames is a moot point anyway, when ( _if_ ) the younger priest wakes up Marcus will kick his arse for being an idiot, for now, they have more pressing matters at hand.

Andy has escaped, Tomas is locked inside his own head and what it looks like the storm of the century is raging outside. There is no light, no car, and he is alone.

The demon inside of Andy is wicked, ancient, powerful and knows exactly how to play them.

It’s his own fault, however. He thought, he sincerely believed he had learned his lesson with Mouse in 1999 but, apparently, he has not. He’s not as quick as a study as he thought he was. 

The moment, the instant he has lowered his guard down and let someone in things have gone to hell. Demons feast on insecurities, on secrets, on doubts – and Andy’s has seen right through him, took what it needed and played them all like finely tuned violins.

He can’t leave Tomas alone, but he needs to find Andy before he takes the kids and slaughters them. He needs to save Harper, the poor kid doesn’t deserve that, and neither does Verity who sometimes reminds him of the child he used to be, before being shoved in that room with that demon.

Tomas is praying, he’s reciting the litany of Loreto, now, which makes his skin crawl, it’s blasphemous, in a way, and he should have done more to help Tomas deal with his curse. He should have told him about Mouse, how her curiosity almost obliterated her soul.

Pride. Regret. Shame.

Sometimes, he’s a lousy servant of God.

 

_How long before he fails you, like the one who came before._

He tries not to let the demon’s words haunt him, but he understands now – because hindsight truly is 20/20 – that they weren’t meant for him. Everything Andy’s demon has said and done was for Tomas alone.

“What are you seeing? How did it get you?” He says as he moves Tomas to that filthy mattress and ties him up.

He has been there before. He has strapped people to beds thousands of times, the movements are precise, efficient, and yet he can feel his heart lurching in his throat. He can only remember padding Mouse’s restraints at first so that the bruises on her wrists and ankles would not be too bad, he feels for a moment the warmth of her skin against his fingertips and he has to close his eyes

 

“ _Madre Purisima, ruega…_

_Madre Castisima, ruega …_

_Madre virginal, ruega_ ”

 

“I need to find the kids, I’ll be back soon –“ He says, and it takes him a moment to realise that his fingers are carding through Tomas’ hair. Normally, he would take the hand back, normally his best friend, the man he has feelings he has been bending over trying to pretend are not there is not locked inside his own mind, with glassy eyes when a demon is set free.

When that is over, provided they are all still alive, he will have to talk to Tomas, they will have to finally deal with his visions, to that door in his soul that bolted open while he exorcised Angela Rance and that needs to be closed down, forever.

He has lost Mouse, he can’t lose Tomas too.

It’s as simple as that, really.

He can almost feel the evil in the house snickering at his thoughts.

He looks around, feeling the seconds ticking by acutely, knowing he ought to be out of there, looking for Andy, but still not moving.

He runs a hand to the back of his head, and sighs.  

God isn’t Santa. That much he knows, He does what He wants, and he can’t say He hasn’t answered his prayers in the past. He has, it’s just he doesn’t always get what he wants, but he does get what he truly needs.

“Help me, Lord. Please, help me.” He says, over and over.

Part of him, expects someone – anyone, really, at the door, when he climbs down the stairs: Peter, maybe, or _anyone_ really, but there isn’t anyone – there is just rain, and that evil presence that he can feel right down to his gut.

He feels dread and a sense of foreboding at the idea of leaving Tomas alone, someone should be there with him, but Andy, Rose, Verity, Harper, Shelby and Caleb need help.

And there is no one else.

He isn’t even sure God has heard his prayers or whether he cares.

 

* * *

 

 

**Isle of Iona, UK – 1998**

 

The room smells of sulphur and sweat and pus, the boy in the bed is crying, the nuns are tending to him as he leans against a wall and he takes what it feels like the first breath in two weeks.

Who would have thought that a small isle like Iona was the place where most of the possessed people in Scotland were sent? He had thought it had been some sort of punishment at first, being forced to be in the same place, doing things that priests had to do every day, but he had soon found out that being in Iona is actually a promotion, a sign of trust from the Vatican.

Not that he cares about _that_ , but it’s been good, so far. He likes it there, when he is not busy he goes out drawing; he can feel God’s presence in that place, among the ruins, looking at the sea.

His eyes are closed, but he smiles when he smells her. He has not heard her getting into the room, he never does, she is quiet, almost unnaturally so, but amidst that stench, her smell is like a balm.

“Mouse –“He says opening his eyes. He doesn’t ask her how long she has been there, when did she get into the room; things were so hectic that he wouldn’t have heard if the Pope himself had got into the room, surrounded by Swiss guards.

“You look tired,” She replies. She is smiling, but she looks pale, shaken, her eyes are wide (bright, they shine so brightly).

“You shouldn’t be here – walk with me?” He says.

He is peripherally aware of the fact that other nuns are looking at him and the young woman he is talking to.

Novice. Not woman. She is Christ’s bride, and he is a priest.

She nods, and when he sways – because he honestly can’t remember the last time he ate or slept, she is there and catches him.

She is a novice, she is Christ’s bride, he is a priest – one who takes his vows seriously, because he saw God’s face once, and he’s like a junkie, needing more – craving it, but for a moment he allows himself the indulgence of leaning on her, and she is small, but surprisingly strong.

They are quiet as they walk down the corridors, he doesn’t really need to lean on her any longer and he suspects she knows that, but she isn’t saying anything.

It is – unfair. It is selfish of him, he is supposed to guide that young woman, not to bask in the admiration she has for him.

She doesn’t lead him to his room, as he expected, but to the kitchen. It’s so late, the dead of the night, truly. The nuns who weren’t tasked with helping him with the exorcism are asleep, there is no one around.

He sits and blinks owlishly when she hands him a mug of tea. He smells a hint, just a hint of alcohol in it and he smiles.

“You need the rest. God won’t mind.” She says.

He smiles. It feels odd, he is not used to smiling so much, but he does when she is around.

The tea is good, and she has sat in front of him.

“How long have you been doing this?” She asks.

 _This_ – exorcising demons, casting out spirits from innocent souls. It’s not the first time he has been asked that question, he usually gives a watered-down version of the truth: “since I took my vows.”, it’s not a complete lie because he knew he belonged body and soul to God the moment he exorcised that first bastard demon when he was a kid, but it’s also a lie because he had to undergo proper training after he took his vows before being allowed to perform exorcises again.

He doesn’t tell the truth because it would beg all sort of questions he doesn’t like to answer to.

“Father Marcus?” She asks, and he blinks. The silence that falls between them is warm, nice, and he doesn’t remember the last time he has felt so at ease.

She is cocking an eyebrow at him, still waiting for an answer. She is curious, she is smart, she wants to make a difference, she – should not look at him like she is doing now: eyes too bright, lips parted. He looks down at his hands wrapped around the mug and the words just come out of his mouth, “I was a kid – the first time.”

Years later, he will tell the same story to another person, one he will feel an immediate connection with as well. With Tomas, it will be desperation, the plea of a drowning man to be heard and believed.

With Mouse – he sins, although that realization will come later, he basks again in her admiration.

Vanity. Pride.

She listens to him, and he forgets how tired he is, he forgets about the boy upstairs, the one whose soul he has just saved.

For a moment, the whole world is in that kitchen – with that woman.

 

* * *

 

**Present day**

 

By some divine intervention, she has managed to take the last ferry to the Island before the storm hit. She feels a sense of dread in her stomach. Her life, her true life started on an island, after she was possessed and the man she was in love with left without a word, gave up on her.

That Marcus is on an island right now, at least according to the last information Father Bennet has received, feels strange, life – real life, usually doesn’t work like that, but there are greater forces at work therefore, she supposes it’s fair that they are both on that island.  

She needs to reach Marcus and his _partner,_ father Tomas Ortega.

Her personal feelings don’t matter, they ceased to have any meaning the moment she chose her path – but she cannot ignore the way her heart is beating: too fast and hard, adrenaline leaving a bitter aftertaste in her mouth.

Perhaps, she should have dealt with her unresolved feelings for Marcus Keane a long time before rather than lock everything up so tightly that demons could not even glimpse that part of her life.

She just did not expect to have to. She did not expect she would ever meet him again. There have been close calls through the years, times when they just missed each other for mere hours.

But she is not afraid, not of this, not of seeing Marcus. Demons scare her, and it’s good because fear keeps her alert, alive, it doesn’t make her weak and stupid. A man she hasn’t seen or heard from for the better part of the past two decades doesn’t scare her. She is not the young, impressionable, naïve novice she used to be.

She has fought demons, cast out unclean spirits, day after day, she has shed blood, tortured bodies to get what she needed, Father Robert dismissed her as a curious girl who forgot her place after she was possessed, Marcus – abandoned her, but she is a survivor and a soldier. And yet, she can feel her heartbeat in her throat and her hands are gripping the steering wheel as she makes her way in the island.

The rain is so thick she can barely see, it reminds her of other nights, at Iona, spent talking to Marcus – just _talking_ , even if she would have given him everything: body, heart (he had it anyway), soul – but he never crossed the line, he was there the day she put the wimples on and he never forgot about that, even later, when not crossing that line became harder and harder and she had to close her hands in tight fists not to grab him and just _feel_ him.

That is the past, a life she barely remembers most days – and the rain is just rain, and there is evil on that island, the more she drives further in it, the more the hair at the back of her head stand up.

 _What have you gotten yourself into, this time?_ She wonders silently.

Eventually, she finds the address she has got – the GPS on her mobile has gone crazy, and goosebumps are now covering her arms and back; the car doesn’t just stop, it dies in front of the house and it takes her a moment before getting out of it.

Eighteen years – no, it’s actually a bit more – the weeks, months in which she was possessed and her recollections of that period is still hazy. She hasn’t seen or talked to Marcus Keane for almost twenty years, half of her life, and yet her fingers tremble and she has to close them in a fist to knock at the door.

As if – it makes any difference. As if she didn’t feel transparent, for the first time since her days at Iona. She is soaking wet and no one is answering the door which, she finds out, is not locked.

She has a knife and a gun on her, a rosary, holy water and a crucifix in her pockets. And yet, for a moment, she feels like the novice who sneaked out inside Miriam’s cell to try and exorcise her.

Stupid, disingenuous child, playing with forces that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.  

“Marcus!” She calls out. The air is thick, and she can smell it right away: evil, corruption, the damage possession does to a human body – scars that take months to heal, that make you feel filthy, wrong, violated; it’s there, it hangs heavily in the air and she looks around, searching for Marcus and Father Tomas.  

She recognises that old Bible right away, it’s on the coffee table in the sitting room: worn, old, a cherished possession even if one wouldn’t say just by looking at it; does he still draw on it? She saw his Bible once, snooped is perhaps more a correct word, she remembers how she was both scandalised and at the same time, she could not stop looking at his drawings. She remembers how she wanted to know everything about him – because, well – it hardly matters, now, doesn’t it?

She never told him, like the other millions of things that have remained unspoken between them.

“Marcus!” She calls again. She puts the Bible back where she found it, and she blinks when she recognises right away Marcus’ smell. It hasn’t changed, it lingers on the sofa and she has to shake her head and step back.

She is dripping water all over the floor, and she doesn’t like the silence in the house – it’s eerie, it’s malicious.

She walks, and it takes her a moment to realise that she has taken out her crucifix from her pocket when she does she nods to herself. She doesn’t call Marcus’ name again, it’s clear he’s either not in the house or…

Nothing. If he’s dead she will leave the house, go back fighting and do what she has done since she woke up in the Abbey at Iona 18 years before.

If he is not in the house – she will find him.  Perhaps, that too is part of God’s plan.

 

* * *

 

 

**Isle of Iona, U.K., early 1999**

He is drawing. A graveyard isn’t perhaps the place she would have chosen, but Marcus (when did they drop the formalities? When did he stop being Father Marcus? She can’t remember how or when it happened, she just knows that when they are alone he calls her Mouse and she – blushes and calls his name.) loves the place; she knows that it’s one of the places where she can find him, should they need him.

The woman, Miriam, has been brought to the Abbey; she is clearly possessed and she is – she is not like the others she has seen so far. She is different.

Marcus calls her: “my little Church mouse” and yet he can always sense her presence, she knows because he smiles when he does.

At first, when she met him, he didn’t smile a lot; he was unlike any priest she had ever met, both in appearance and conduct, but now he smiles, and she knows how much God’s grace flows through him. It’s a joy to behold.

“What brings you here, Mouse?” He asks, and he isn’t even looking at her, he’s still focusing on his drawing which he is now deliberately hiding from her.

“They brought her – everything is in order.” She says.

She can’t be part of an exorcism, she is a novice and she hasn’t had proper training, yet, but she – is Marcus’ de facto assistant, in everything else.

Marcus closes his eyes and she swallows. She wants to take the few steps that separate them, she wants to – ease the lines on his face in some way. She wants to ask him about the scars she has glimpsed on his forearms, but she knows, she is aware that she cannot do any of those things.

There is already too much talk about their friendship, she is not stupid, she has noticed how sometimes her sisters stop talking whenever she enters a room; does Marcus know? Did he notice? Does he care?

He is looking at her, now. She had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed him opening his eyes and look at her.

She can’t move, for a moment. She can’t tear her gaze away from him. There is sadness in his eyes, weariness, resolve – faith and something else, something she should not notice, something that should not be there, but it warms her heart.

It’s a cold, grey morning, she can hear thunders approaching, but it all barely registers.

He is the one who takes a step toward her, just one – shortening the distance between them. His sketchbook under his arm, he is wearing a coat, but it’s an old, thin thing that surely can’t offer him much warmth. Yet, he doesn’t seem to mind. He is smiling.

And she is smiling too because it’s so easy to do so when she is with him, and neither of them moves, she is rooted to the spot, there are just a couple of steps separating them now and he doesn’t move either.

She is not technically a nun, not yet. She wears her wimples, she is studying – but she hasn’t made her vows, yet.

Marcus, on the other hand – he plays his music too loud, he has long hair, his methods are unorthodox, he even draws trees and birds on his Bible, but he is a man of God.

“Let’s go –“ He says, breaking the silence that has fallen between them; he is still smiling, his eyes are the deepest blue she has ever seen and she doesn’t want to go back – not now.

They weren’t talking, they were just looking at each other, and yet she feels like they have spoken words. She feels like he has asked her out loud why she chose to become a nun, even if he has never asked her; she feels like she has told him why: because she has faith because she wants to be God’s bride, because it beats the alternative: living in her family.

She feels like he has told her things, too; things he has never said aloud either; how he sleeps even after seeing the most horrific images, how he has nightmares even when he kips with his head on the desk in his office, but he never seems to remember them.

She nods, started when big raindrops fall on her forehead and cheeks.

They will get drenched before they go back to the Abbey, but she doesn’t truly care. They run under the pouring rain and when she stumbles he is quick to catch her, by grabbing her hand. They run hand in hand up until they reach the Abbey, only then does she notice that; she is soaking wet and so is Marcus, but they are still smiling.

Hours later, she sneaks into the room where the woman, Miriam, is being held, for the first time. The demon inside the woman observes her and years later, she would realise that was her first mistake: she went into that room wearing her heart on her sleeve, her weaknesses plain for everyone to see.

There isn’t shame in her, however. She is not ashamed of what she feels for Marcus. That will come later.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tomarcus is coming - stay tuned:)


End file.
